


Of Love and Dreams to Share

by Ralkana



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Music, Clint Feels, Established Relationship, M/M, One Shot, Pheels, Post-Movie(s), shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-29
Updated: 2012-11-29
Packaged: 2017-11-19 19:58:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,200
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/577080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ralkana/pseuds/Ralkana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Clint listens to Christmas music and bakes cookies.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Love and Dreams to Share

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer ~ Marvel's toys, not mine. I'm just playing with them.
> 
> It's a little early for Christmas fic, and I was going to wait until at least December to post this, but judging by the comments on tumblr lately, we all need some shameless fluff.
> 
> Thanks, as always, to [Maquis Leader](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Maquis_Leader) for all her help and cheerleading!

 

The carols seem to start earlier and earlier every year. By Thanksgiving, they are everywhere -- on commercials, as hold music on the phone, blaring overhead in stores, and of course, there are the radio stations dedicated to nothing but Christmas music, every genre and type, starting from what seems like Halloween.

Clint hears the other agents grumble about it on the carrier and the Quinjets and in the break rooms and the cafeteria, he listens to Tony and Darcy and Hill and even Phil complain about the constant bombardment, and he grins wryly and rolls his eyes and nods in all the right places, but he says nothing.

He loves Christmas music, and always has.

When he was little, very little, Christmas carols always made him picture a quiet home, warm and safe, with a crackling fireplace and snow outside the windows and the smell of Christmas cookies in the air, but they were nothing but far away dreams -- distant, flickering images, things he only saw on his family's battered old television before he lost even that.

So he waits until he is alone in his suite -- _their_ suite, his and Phil's, he's half of a them now, and the thought _still_ dazes him whenever it hits him -- and then he and JARVIS listen to every Christmas song JARVIS can find.

He wakes one Saturday morning in deep December and reaches toward the other side of the bed, frowning when he finds it empty. There is a note propped on his bedside table, _Sorry. Need to go in. Be home as soon as I can. - P_ , and Clint picks it up and runs his fingers gently over the familiar handwriting before sighing and rolling out of bed.

He checks his phone to make sure he hasn't left it on silent again and missed anything important, but there's nothing but the regular mid-December daily _BIGGEST SALE EVER!_ emails from seemingly every single retail website he's ever even thought of visiting, and he knows if he were needed for something crucial, JARVIS would have made sure he knew about it.

"Coffee, JARVIS, please," he rasps as he heads for the shower, grinning blearily at the ceiling when the AI instantly responds to acknowledge and confirm his request.

He stands at the living room window a little while later, coffee mug in hand, watching snow fall on the city. It is quiet and peaceful -- he knows that down on the street, it must be a mess, gray and dirty, freezing and wet and slippery and a pain in the ass, but from way up here, it is nothing but beautiful.

The others are probably still eating breakfast, whoever is around, and he could go join them, but as much as he's gotten used to seeing them as his team, as his friends even, they are a poor substitute for the lazy weekend breakfast he was expecting to share with Phil.

He could read, or watch TV, but neither of those options are all that appealing this morning. He could go down a few floors to the range or the gym, that idea has slightly more merit, but he doesn't know when Phil will be home. He tends to lose time when he's locked in with his weapons, and they’ve already missed enough time together today.

Phil probably won't be home until late, he knows, given that whatever crisis has popped up is important enough to pull him in a Saturday, but he can hope. Maybe it'll be quick.

"Hey, JARVIS, you got any subroutines to make the flatscreen look like a fireplace?"

There is no reply other than a quiet _whump_ as the television flares into life, crackling invitingly, and the flames are so lifelike that Clint is surprised he can't feel their heat. He laughs as the room is filled with low, flickering light and mysterious shadows.

"Perfect," he says, his grin widening even further as the AI thanks him as usual, all prim politeness while still managing to sound pleased.

Clint wonders if he has any cream of tartar left.

"Tunes, JARVIS. The usual, please."

The air fills with the familiar opening notes of "Christmas Eve/Sarajevo 12/24" and Clint smiles because of course JARVIS has learned his favorites after weeks of this, and then he goes to see how much flour he has.

Soon, the kitchen is warm and smells like chocolate and cinnamon and vanilla, and there are racks of cooling cookies on every flat surface. Clint would be worried that he's baking too many of them, but he's seen Thor put away two dozen cookies in one sitting and reach for more, and he knows Cap has a sweet tooth and will charitably finish off any left behind, purely in the interest of not wasting food, of course.

He is humming and bouncing along to the jazzy call and answer of "Baby, It's Cold Outside" and working on the second batch of snickerdoodles when he hears the front door open, and he looks up and out the window in surprise and grins. It's not even dark outside yet, and Phil is home way earlier than Clint had any right to expect.

There is a brief moment of petrified embarrassment as he thinks of what he must look like, flour in his hair, chocolate and butter and dough under his short fingernails, and he’s in a freaking apron, for God's sake, like some 1950s TV housewife minus the heels and pearls, but he thinks, _screw it_. Phil's seen him in stranger situations and looking far worse, and he hasn't run screaming yet, so Clint just keeps humming and scraping the dough away from the sides of the mixer bowl.

Strong arms slide around his waist, a firm chest against his back, and he freezes and then relaxes into the hold, lips curving into a happy smile. Phil is the only one who can surprise him, the only person in the world he feels comfortable enough with to _let_ surprise him. He leans into Phil's embrace, his smile widening as they hum a few bars together, and then -- 

"Your eyes are like starlight now..." 

The words are quiet and melodic, barely a murmur in Clint's ear, laced with just a tiny bit of embarrassment and uncertainty, and astonished pleasure jolts through Clint, because Phil is _singing_ to him. Phil _never_ sings, it's the one thing that makes him uncomfortable, especially after the first time he heard Clint sing, but here he is, holding Clint tight and swaying to the beat and singing to him, just one more part of Phil that he doesn’t let anybody but Clint see.

Clint thinks of all the cold, lonely Christmases of his life, and of these warm, quiet rooms, the happy crackle of a fire as snow swirls outside, familiar music and the smell of cinnamon in the air, and most of all, he thinks of this amazing, wonderful man who knows all of him there is to know and loves him anyway. _Never again_ , he realizes, _never alone again_ , and he drops the spatula with a clatter as he turns in Phil's arms to give him a proper welcome home kiss.

**END**

 

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note ~ The title comes from the song "Christmas Time is Here", written and originally performed by the Vince Guaraldi Trio in, of course, _A Charlie Brown Christmas_.


End file.
